HARMED - Book 1: First Do No Harm

by L Jan Eira

  The group of doctors and students followed Jack. Someone described an event, something funny about a TV program from the evening before. They talked and laughed. Jack was barely listening. Deep inside, he was fearful that the sudden tragic loss of his friends was affecting him more profoundly than he had imagined. He was having vivid daytime nightmares. He was distracted. He was unfocused.

  Maybe it’s time to take this seriously and get help, thought Jack. I have to see someone for this. Jack realized now more than ever that Claire was right. He was going to need serious professional help. There was no denying it.

  The group reached the sixth floor medical unit, the main place cardiac patients were hospitalized. The group would start rounds there.

  Goddamn PTSD, mused Jack, his cervical muscles tensing up. Thanks, Rupert and company. I owe you another one. Jack massaged his neck muscles, yearning for relief from the aching spasms. I’ll find out who else was helping you, Rupert. Don’t you worry. I’ll find each and every one of them! Only then can this nightmare be over for me!

  CHAPTER 42

  Jack was concerned that his professional work was being affected by the murders. The horrific visions persisted, and he knew they were there to stay, at least until the whole situation was resolved. But would it ever get resolved? He didn’t feel any closer to obtaining proper finality. Do you ever get closure when your best friend is assassinated? he thought. I have to discuss the issue with Claire and get some help. It was clear the dreadfulness of it all was not over for him psychologically.

  Nonetheless, he was confident that his best way to cope with the situation was to help catch the mastermind behind it all. Rupert had been most definitely involved, no question of it in Jack’s mind. Now he was dead, conveniently murdered. Who would gain from it? Jack smirked, a fake smile belying the torture inside. The architect of it all! That’s who.

  Jack took time to catch up with the piling-up work at his office. He reviewed laboratory results, signed previously given verbal orders and patient files, dictated patient histories and discharge summaries that had been neglected due to a busy caseload, and labored over the on-call schedule for the doctors in training. Keeping his mind busy was marvelous. It kept the boogeyman away. It was time to go home.

  The car ride was peaceful, chill time. Cars were moving rather well, although the peak hour of heavy traffic was still to come. The phone rang.

  “Jack, it’s Herb,” he heard. “When Rupert mysteriously dies in a car crash the day we get a warrant for his arrest, I decided to follow your advice about Mike Ganz.”

  “Good. What did you find out?”

  “He told us yesterday that he found out Rupert was the owner of the mysterious gun used to commit the crimes at Memorial Hospital?”

  “Yeah!”

  “We all thought the gun was the key to the whole case. Mike told us repeatedly that the gun was not reported on the database. He finally discovered that Rupert purchased the weapon and called us to tell us that the moment the poor slob showed up dead.”

  Jack was burning with anticipation. “How opportune, right?”

  Fuller continued. “I went behind his back and found out he never checked at all. Also, he comes to the morning meetings every day except for the day Rupert ends up dead.”

  Jack felt the blood boiling inside his veins. “What are you going to do now?”

  “I’ll talk to Susan first thing in the morning. I’ll interrogate Mike and see what he has to say. First, I want to gather as much evidence as possible.”

  Jack took a deep breath and bit his lower lip, rage percolating in his chest. “Thanks for letting me know.”

  “One more thing,” continued Fuller. “Rupert’s home was ransacked.”

  “I wonder why?”

  Jack heard Fuller’s heavy breath on the phone. “I don’t know. The neighbors reported suspicious men at the house. On their arrival, the police officers found it totally rummaged.”

  “What do you think they were looking for?”

  “Don’t know.” There was a moment of silence. “Jack, please don’t talk to anybody about any of this for your own protection. I think whoever is behind all this is dangerous.” And he hung up the phone.

  Jack glanced at his rearview mirror. He spotted the black sedan again a few cars behind him. Unsurprisingly, despite great efforts, Jack couldn’t make out who the driver was. I don’t think it’s you, Ganz, thought Jack. But maybe one of your buddies. He accelerated. The sedan followed suit. Jack suddenly turned hard right, almost recklessly. The sedan mimicked the turn. As the cars sped down the highway, passing all other vehicles, a road sign gave Jack an idea. It read Evansville Airport. Jack pulled out his Treo and made a cell-phone call.

  The car race continued with the mysterious vehicle close behind. The covert driver of the sedan was obviously a pro at this, pursuing with impeccable precision and timing. Despite Jack’s best efforts, the distance between the two automobiles decreased little by little. As he approached the airport, Jack spied a police car parked on the side of the road. Jack contemplated stopping and reporting his pursuer but then thought better of it. There was no wrongdoing yet, nor would he actually be able to prove he was being followed, although that was clear to Jack. He would persist with his plan.

  A traffic light turned red as Jack crossed the intersection. The dark car, now two cars behind, would be forced to stop, especially with the cop car nearby. Jack turned left, past a sign pointing in that direction that read “Evansville Airport.” He parked his car and ran toward the terminal.

  After several more minutes of street racing, the sedan arrived at the airport’s parking lot and parked briskly without any delay. Jack’s car was in one of the stalls. The driver immediately got out of the sedan and ran toward the Lexus. He looked inside, and when satisfied Jack was gone, the man sprinted to the gate leading to the tarmac. As he did, the Bonanza slowly gathered velocity as it sped down the runway. In a few heartbeats, the airplane was airborne. The landing gear retracted as the aircraft disappeared into the beautiful blue sky, dotted with multiple clouds.

  Dispirited, the man stood looking skyward for a long moment. “Shit. Dammit!” he exclaimed with ireful words. He walked back to his car, his steps heavy with angst. He opened up the trunk of his vehicle, removed a round object, and carried it toward Jack’s car. He got on his knees next to Jack’s auto and attached the small round object to the undercarriage of the vehicle. “Good luck getting away from me, now,” he said to no one. He looked in all directions underneath the parked vehicles. Satisfied that no shoes were discernible near his location, he stood up inconspicuously. He straightened up his dark sunglasses, proceeded to his sedan, and drove onto the road leading out of the airport.

  Behind a parked truck, Jack kneeled down on the large protruding bumper, crouching down to avoid detection. He saw the mysterious stranger speed out of the parking area.

  “I owe you one, Steve,” murmured Jack to no one in particular as he got on his feet and searched for his mobile phone. Now, what was left on my car?

  CHAPTER 43

  When Claire arrived, she spied several parked vehicles crowding the parking lot adjacent to the Evansville Airport. But her attention immediately shifted to two patrol cars, an unmarked police car, and a Crime Scene Investigation van, which loitered about displaying a myriad of flashing emergency lights that resembled a kaleidoscope from afar. She parked her car and rushed to Jack’s arms.

  “Are you OK, Jack?”

  “I’m fine,” he said. “The police are investigating the object. They removed it from under the car. It appears to be some sort of tracking device. They’re now getting pictures, fingerprints, and so forth.” Jack’s calm demeanor put Claire at ease. She took a cleansing deep breath.

  Detectives Fuller and Quentin and Agent Mike Ganz walked toward the couple.

  “Are you guys OK?” asked Quentin.

  “I’m still shaking, but I’ll be fine,” said Claire.

  “Good. There’s no
reason for alarm,” said Ganz.

  Fuller walked over to Jack and placed a hand on his shoulder. “For your safety, I’m going to provide you police protection. I’ll have a police car parked outside your house until we get to the bottom of this.”

  “OK, sure,” said Jack, looking at Claire. She nodded.

  “We’ll take the device and your car to our station for full analysis,” said Quentin.

  “Are we in any danger?” asked Claire.

  “I don’t know, but we’d like to take precautions,” said Fuller. “Whoever is behind these heinous murders knows you are involved, Jack, and is following you. So, please be careful and stay out of the investigation.”

  Ganz stood tall, silent. Quentin took Claire by her arm and gently guided her to her car. With his hand still on Jack’s shoulder, Fuller directed him to follow behind the women and toward Claire’s car.

  “This may be an FBI-issued tracking device,” whispered Fuller. “That would go along with your theory that Mike is somehow involved.” Fuller winked at Jack. “Be careful. Don’t take any chances. We’ll talk tomorrow morning.”

  Jack nodded slowly, as if in a trance. By then, they were by Claire’s car. Jack helped Claire get into the passenger side of her vehicle, then got in and sat behind the steering wheel. The investigative crowd continued to poke and prod at Jack’s car. The Norrises slowly drove off in utter silence, mesmerized by the latest sequence of events. This had turned personal, and the stakes had become much higher.

  Behind them, in the rearview mirror, the misty autumn evening and the dimming sunlight exaggerated the luminous effects of the flashing emergency lights on the roofs of the police vehicles.

  “Jack, I’m scared!” said Claire. “With everything that’s happened tonight…” Her words dissipated into a long moment of silence. “If Herb thinks we need police protection, we must be in some kind of danger!”

  CHAPTER 44

  Once Jack and Claire departed the area, the detectives went back to work. Quentin approached Todd Turner, head of the CSI team, and engaged him in conversation. Ganz began to follow her but stopped when he heard his name.

  “Mike, I have some questions for you,” said Fuller.

  “Yeah, what’s up, Herb?” answered Ganz, turning back to face the older detective.

  Reflexively and covertly, Fuller felt for his Glock hidden underneath his jacket. “I checked with the FBI headquarters in Indianapolis. You never accessed the missing-weapons database. How did you find out it was Rupert’s gun?”

  “I asked one of my cohorts to check,” said Ganz. “He called me with the results right before I called you.”

  “What’s his name? Your cohort?”

  “Are you checking up on me, Herb?”

  “I guess I am.”

  “His name is Nicholas Dallas. I have the records he faxed me in my car.” Ganz pointed down a long lane of parked cars.

  “Yes, show me what you got,” said Fuller. “I’d like to see!”

  Ganz looked Fuller in the eye. “I don’t know what you think I did. I’m just helping you get the bad guy.” Ganz turned and walked between vehicles, away from the crime scene and deeper into the parking lot. “Follow me to my car.”

  “I find it hard to believe,” said Fuller. “I think you never checked on the gun or ballistics.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you, Herb. I was busy,” said Ganz.

  The two were now several rows of cars deeper into the parking lot and several yards away from the lighted area of intense investigation. Ganz suddenly removed a mask from his right jacket pocket and placed it over his own mouth and nose.

  “What are you doing?” said Fuller, his concerned expression morphing into an alarmed face.

  In rapid succession, Ganz withdrew an apparatus from his left pocket, which he pointed at Fuller’s face. An aerosolized mist swiftly entered Fuller’s nasal passages.

  “What’s this?” said Fuller. “What are you doing to me?”

  Ganz removed another gadget from his right pocket. This had the appearance of a remote control that he pointed at Fuller, and he pressed a button.

  “Help!” yelled Fuller. “Suzy, help me!” He began to run toward the lighted crime scene, but Ganz held him back, his hand smothering Fuller’s shouts, muffling them.

  The two men struggled, as Fuller attempted to free himself and get the attention of his cohorts several yards away. Fuller began to feel his heart pounding and his body weakening profoundly. “Help!” he tried to bellow out, though his words were stifled by Ganz’s strong arm covering his mouth, holding him back. “Help me!”

  CHAPTER 45

  Jack drove into the night, the high beams slicing into the darkness. His cell phone rang.

  “Jack, come back,” yelled Quentin when he answered the call. “Herb collapsed. I’ve called nine-one-one, but please hurry!”

  “I’m turning back.” Jack threw the phone at Claire, her face growing with apprehension and then agitation, her gaze on Jack. “This can’t be good. Herb collapsed at the scene.”

  Soon the vehicle entered the parking lot. To the side, a group of people gathered around. In the middle of it all, Herb lay on the ground motionless. Susan knelt down next to him, supporting his head on her thighs. Concerned looks abounded.

  “Give us some room, please,” yelled Jack, approaching the fallen cop. “Will everyone step back?”

  A quick visual assessment of the detective clearly indicated that the man was in serious trouble. There was blood around his lips. His airway was patent, but he was cyanotic; a bluish discoloration of his lips and tongue indicated poor oxygenation to his tissues.

  “What happened?” asked Jack quickly, kneeling down by Fuller’s body.

  Susan’s usual calm and collected demeanor was replaced by copious amounts of distress and concern. “He walked out here on his own. The rest of us were out by the car talking to the CSI people. We suddenly heard a grunting noise and ran here. Herb was on the ground having a seizure. He was foaming at the mouth. These officers held him down, and we placed him on his side to avoid aspiration. I called you right away. And nine-one-one. He stopped having a seizure as you arrived.”

  Jack took Fuller’s carotid pulse. His pulse was extremely rapid but faint. Sirens in the distance grew increasingly louder. Jack bit his lower lip.

  Fuller briefly regained some sort of consciousness, becoming agitated and hyper. “My guns, my gun, my guns,” he repeated, slurring his words.

  “Herb, do you know what happened to you?” said Jack, his gaze meeting Fuller’s. “Can you recognize me?”

  “Ma guns, ma guh…” said Fuller, his words more and more distorted. His combativeness and agitation were waning rapidly as he faded.

  The ambulance siren blared at full volume as the emergency vehicle turned into the parking lot. Two young men dressed in blue uniforms jumped out of the ambulance, carrying a large container and an oxygen bottle.

  “It looks like he had a seizure,” said Ganz to the approaching paramedics.

  “Does he have a history of seizures?” asked Jack, looking briefly at Quentin.

  “No, he’s been healthy all his life,” she said. “He had a full physical three months ago and was told he was a picture of health.”

  The paramedics cut off Herb’s shirt and placed skin electrodes on his chest.

  “I’m a doctor. Jack Norris.”

  “I recognize you, Doc. I’m Ray. This is Bo,” said one of the paramedics.

  “Ma gun, mmm,” continued Fuller, now even more feebly.

  “Sinus tachycardia,” said Jack, as the heart-monitor unit came alive, showing the patient’s heart rate. “Wow! Two hundred and twenty beats a minute.”

  “Get a blood pressure,” said Bo to his partner, who was already gathering the necessary equipment.

  “Let’s administer verapamil and propranolol as soon as we establish an IV line,” commanded Jack.

  As this was being done, the monitor suddenly changed. The extremel
y rapid heartbeat suddenly slowed to one hundred, then forty, then…a straight line. Simultaneously, Fuller took a deep last breath.

  “Start CPR,” yelled Jack. “Let me help you get an IV line. Get ready to give one milligram of epinephrine and one milligram of atropine.” He took a deep breath. “We’re losing him fast.”

  Quentin started chest compressions. Ray began breathing for Fuller, pushing air into his lungs by squeezing a special bag attached to a mask over Fuller’s mouth and nose.

  In no time at all and with the expertise of a magician, Jack had intravenous access. A bag of 5 percent dextrose in water was held by one of the medics. The tubing from the IV bag was hooked to the IV port, which was taped securely to the skin.

  “Epinephrine and atropine are in,” yelled Paramedic Bo above the chaos of the background clamor. CPR efforts continued for a minute. The monitor was reassessed but still showed a flat line.

  “One more round of epi and atropine,” ordered Jack.

  Bo nodded his head and complied.

  “No response,” said Ray, his head shaking slowly, his eyes on the heart monitor and fingers on Fuller’s carotid pulse.

  “Continue CPR to the hospital. Let’s move fast and give another round of drugs,” commanded Jack, his face plastered with sorrow. Jack realized that the chance of a successful outcome was just about nil.

  The group positioned Fuller on the stretcher, placed it in the ambulance, and sped to Newton Memorial Hospital. A radio announcement to the emergency department’s personnel would facilitate the transfer on arrival. In the rig, Quentin continued CPR. Jack, at her side, had taken on the task of breathing for Fuller by squeezing the airbag periodically. More drugs were administered intravenously in the hopes of restarting the heartbeat. None did any good.

  As the ambulance sped away with lights and sirens blaring, Jack could not stop hearing Fuller’s last words in his head: “My guns, my guns!”

  Strange. Why would he want his gun? thought Jack. Did he want to commit suicide? Kill people around him? The chances Fuller was poisoned like the others were extremely high. That means the killer was at the scene.